Here's a little something from me.
While Zaynab knelt, coughing and trying to breathe, she missed the sound of hooves on stone that would have warned her before Nyarlathotep’s hand stroked through her hair.
“Behold, O son of the All-in-One, before you sits Yhoundeh! She is the Vessel I have created for the purpose of bringing forth the Openers of the Way. She is the culmination of the bloodline that began with Yasmin. How dare you touch her? How dare you harm her? The present age soon draws to a close; there isn’t time enough for me to start afresh. I allowed you a second mortal existence to serve as her guard, but if you lay a hand on her again before the children are born, I will crush you under my heel. You will suffer a death far worse then being torn apart by dogs. You are less then a gnat compared to me,” he told the man-thing. “Do you understand me?”
Zaynab watched in amazement as Wilbur took a step back, consternation and more then a little fear flashing across his ugly face.
If he can intimidate Wilbur Whateley…
Zaynab hadn’t realized that fear really could paralyze a person until now. She couldn’t move—only stare into the dark and listen to her heart race.
He turned his full attention to her. “Did you think you could hide from me? You are mine, Yhoundeh. And what is mine, I keep.”
story scraps
Moderators: mgmirkin, Moderators
cool, cool, cool, here's another one
<><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Jakeb I prey You find this
Go home Go back rite now
They Hate Us
so much I dont nowe why
Fransis sed Tell You They will not be denide
I shooted Fransis
Jakeb I am sorry
Francis lay in a leathery puddle by the fireplace. His right arm was crossed awkwardly over his face, mercifully obscuring the ragged wound from which the message's ink had run. The whole affair had long since dried and crusted over, but decay would not come. Earthly maggots or bacteria would venture nowhere near such death upon death, and it was not until I saw it for myself that I knew evil.
<><><><><><><><><><><><><>
Jakeb I prey You find this
Go home Go back rite now
They Hate Us
so much I dont nowe why
Fransis sed Tell You They will not be denide
I shooted Fransis
Jakeb I am sorry
Francis lay in a leathery puddle by the fireplace. His right arm was crossed awkwardly over his face, mercifully obscuring the ragged wound from which the message's ink had run. The whole affair had long since dried and crusted over, but decay would not come. Earthly maggots or bacteria would venture nowhere near such death upon death, and it was not until I saw it for myself that I knew evil.
The beginning of 'The Cellar' (a title "in work")
There exists in the small town of Dennis, Massachusetts, a rusty, partially disintegrated wrought-iron ladder leading from the cellar of a quaint old fashioned cottage down into a level of cold, bleak madness. This subterranean level of absurd, grotesque and magnificent fear is fed by the five rooms and one main hallway it possess.
Indeed, upon first exploring this second level my cousin and I found it’s layout to be in a rough, and sublimely sinister, pentangle shape, beginning with a long hallway, perhaps seventeen feet in length in all. The far side of the hall opened into a room twice as large each of the other four. The other four rooms were fixed adjacent from each other, the rooms centered between the extra large room to the front and the two rooms at the back had small halls leading into them.
The rooms themselves in general contained nothing of interest, being mostly bare and extremely dusty. The walls of the five rooms were made of a tough gray clay, fissured in many areas and with weeds and other small plants poking curiously through these fissures even in the absence of light and fresh air. The floors were similarly constructed. Originally made of the small clay as the walls, little of it still existed in place and intact. Instead, a rough, dirt, walk way lead in between these rooms with bits of the pulverized clay flooring remaining in their places. The hall walls were unique in this particular substructure. Showing signs of once being covered by wood planking, most of which had now disintegrated or strewn about as needle thin splinters in the halls dirt floor.
Though the dank rooms had no apparently immediate purpose, upon further inspection with my companion, the son of a my departed mothers cousin, the expansive room which formed the point of the pentangle had one particularly odd feature of great interest. To explain the lesser will be easy, for it was simply a pocket watch. Plain, gold, single function, the watch upon inspection dates to what we thought to be the mid seventeenth century.
There exists in the small town of Dennis, Massachusetts, a rusty, partially disintegrated wrought-iron ladder leading from the cellar of a quaint old fashioned cottage down into a level of cold, bleak madness. This subterranean level of absurd, grotesque and magnificent fear is fed by the five rooms and one main hallway it possess.
Indeed, upon first exploring this second level my cousin and I found it’s layout to be in a rough, and sublimely sinister, pentangle shape, beginning with a long hallway, perhaps seventeen feet in length in all. The far side of the hall opened into a room twice as large each of the other four. The other four rooms were fixed adjacent from each other, the rooms centered between the extra large room to the front and the two rooms at the back had small halls leading into them.
The rooms themselves in general contained nothing of interest, being mostly bare and extremely dusty. The walls of the five rooms were made of a tough gray clay, fissured in many areas and with weeds and other small plants poking curiously through these fissures even in the absence of light and fresh air. The floors were similarly constructed. Originally made of the small clay as the walls, little of it still existed in place and intact. Instead, a rough, dirt, walk way lead in between these rooms with bits of the pulverized clay flooring remaining in their places. The hall walls were unique in this particular substructure. Showing signs of once being covered by wood planking, most of which had now disintegrated or strewn about as needle thin splinters in the halls dirt floor.
Though the dank rooms had no apparently immediate purpose, upon further inspection with my companion, the son of a my departed mothers cousin, the expansive room which formed the point of the pentangle had one particularly odd feature of great interest. To explain the lesser will be easy, for it was simply a pocket watch. Plain, gold, single function, the watch upon inspection dates to what we thought to be the mid seventeenth century.
"If you must break the law, do it to seize power: in all other cases observe it." ~ Caesar
[America] [Scotland] ||| The Truth will stand when the World is on fire.
[America] [Scotland] ||| The Truth will stand when the World is on fire.
-
nortonew
- Lurking Fear
- Posts: 215
- Joined: Tue Jul 20, 2004 9:02 pm
- Location: Barren, frozen, wastelands
Enkil,
In an attempt to give some constructive criticism, I would say that your description of the layout of the rooms in the cellar gets a bit muddled and confusing and would probably distract the reader. If the reader gets confused by the first few paragraphs of a short story, they are probably not going to bother to read much further.
If the description of the layout of the cellar isn't extremely crucial to the story, you may want to get rid of it, or at least move it back to a later portion of the text.
Also, to state that the cellar is a "level of absurd, grotesque and magnificent fear" sort of clashes with the following detailed description. I was left wondering how the narrator would have been able to explore such a area of unrelenting fear so well that he had been able to give such a complete, (if confusing), description of its layout.
I don't mean to be insulting by this. I just thought I would give my take on your excerpt to help out a fellow aspiring writer. (Feel free to critique my stuff in return).
In an attempt to give some constructive criticism, I would say that your description of the layout of the rooms in the cellar gets a bit muddled and confusing and would probably distract the reader. If the reader gets confused by the first few paragraphs of a short story, they are probably not going to bother to read much further.
If the description of the layout of the cellar isn't extremely crucial to the story, you may want to get rid of it, or at least move it back to a later portion of the text.
Also, to state that the cellar is a "level of absurd, grotesque and magnificent fear" sort of clashes with the following detailed description. I was left wondering how the narrator would have been able to explore such a area of unrelenting fear so well that he had been able to give such a complete, (if confusing), description of its layout.
I don't mean to be insulting by this. I just thought I would give my take on your excerpt to help out a fellow aspiring writer. (Feel free to critique my stuff in return).
i detect a particular influence in this piece of writing.. admittedly i am no expert, but 'the cellar' seems to be unfolding in the way one might set up an rpg scenario, as if to instruct the drafting of a map or schematic of some kind.
so it sounds kind of rooted in technicality.. except in the parts where you use abstract adjectives, like nortonew quoted above. i agree that it's not really story-beginning material (in its present configuration).
also i would avoid terms like 'sublimely sinister.' it gives the narration a kind of cheesy goth persona that hurts more than it helps, in my opinion.
in conclusion, this is all meant in the spirit of friendly constructive criticism. i hope to get lots of helpful feedback when i post my story, so i'm trying to build some critique credit in the meantime
so it sounds kind of rooted in technicality.. except in the parts where you use abstract adjectives, like nortonew quoted above. i agree that it's not really story-beginning material (in its present configuration).
also i would avoid terms like 'sublimely sinister.' it gives the narration a kind of cheesy goth persona that hurts more than it helps, in my opinion.
in conclusion, this is all meant in the spirit of friendly constructive criticism. i hope to get lots of helpful feedback when i post my story, so i'm trying to build some critique credit in the meantime
Last edited by JJ Burke on Thu Mar 08, 2007 2:50 am, edited 1 time in total.
A monkey riding a dog is probably the awesomest thing that could ever happen.
Contributors wanted! Fantastic Horror — Original Works of Disturbing Imagination
Contributors wanted! Fantastic Horror — Original Works of Disturbing Imagination
Something I started to throw together a while ago. I don't really know were it's going or even what genre it's in but I'd be interested in knowing if it's worth persuing. Takes place in early 19th centry/late 18th.
When I received a dispatch from one of my colleagues at the Royal Egyptian Museum, at Cairo, that a medium sized chamber had been discovered under the left paw of the Sphinx, and that in the chamber was thought to be the rumored database knowledge long forgotten, I was doubtful to say the very least. The concept of such a database has been handed down throughout the ages as myth and nothing more; and the idea of surviving Atlantian records, if there really is such a thing, being stored there was sheer poppycock, a dream concocted by mad opium addicts and occult scholars wishing for something more from the shade of the unknown. However, the dispatch read on that my expertise in ancient languages was desperately sought, and if I was unwilling to come of my own accord a sum of £7,000 sterling was to be offered for my services; though, they said, they were sure a man of my curiosity and imagination would come of his own accord, in hopes to satisfy my own curiosity.
They were wrong about that, I had no interest in their pending excavation. Though the £7,000 sterling was quite enticing. Egypt was a long voyage however, fraught with many dangers and perils, so many such that I couldn’t quite decide as what my course of action would be. So I did as anyone would do: I told Franklin, my butler, that I would take my tea on the back terrace, and I went out and had my afternoon tea and smoke.
I sat down on one of the padded whicker chairs and looked out over my small ancestral land. Truly it was small, a mere 20 acres, but it was mine, and that’s all that mattered. My lodgings were a mere 2 acres in area. Yet, if this discovery was true, and my name was associated with it, I could easily buy another 10 hectares of the surrounding land and expand my estate. Then of course there would be the matter of prestige; my name was already well known throughout anthropological and archeological communities across the world, I couldn’t ask for more recognition. Though, if a chance to further raise my name came about, I wouldn’t shy away from the opportunity. After all, did Caesar stop at Gaul? No! He marched on and slew Britain.
When I received a dispatch from one of my colleagues at the Royal Egyptian Museum, at Cairo, that a medium sized chamber had been discovered under the left paw of the Sphinx, and that in the chamber was thought to be the rumored database knowledge long forgotten, I was doubtful to say the very least. The concept of such a database has been handed down throughout the ages as myth and nothing more; and the idea of surviving Atlantian records, if there really is such a thing, being stored there was sheer poppycock, a dream concocted by mad opium addicts and occult scholars wishing for something more from the shade of the unknown. However, the dispatch read on that my expertise in ancient languages was desperately sought, and if I was unwilling to come of my own accord a sum of £7,000 sterling was to be offered for my services; though, they said, they were sure a man of my curiosity and imagination would come of his own accord, in hopes to satisfy my own curiosity.
They were wrong about that, I had no interest in their pending excavation. Though the £7,000 sterling was quite enticing. Egypt was a long voyage however, fraught with many dangers and perils, so many such that I couldn’t quite decide as what my course of action would be. So I did as anyone would do: I told Franklin, my butler, that I would take my tea on the back terrace, and I went out and had my afternoon tea and smoke.
I sat down on one of the padded whicker chairs and looked out over my small ancestral land. Truly it was small, a mere 20 acres, but it was mine, and that’s all that mattered. My lodgings were a mere 2 acres in area. Yet, if this discovery was true, and my name was associated with it, I could easily buy another 10 hectares of the surrounding land and expand my estate. Then of course there would be the matter of prestige; my name was already well known throughout anthropological and archeological communities across the world, I couldn’t ask for more recognition. Though, if a chance to further raise my name came about, I wouldn’t shy away from the opportunity. After all, did Caesar stop at Gaul? No! He marched on and slew Britain.
"If you must break the law, do it to seize power: in all other cases observe it." ~ Caesar
[America] [Scotland] ||| The Truth will stand when the World is on fire.
[America] [Scotland] ||| The Truth will stand when the World is on fire.
-
Jesus Prime
- Moderator
- Posts: 3713
- Joined: Tue Jun 28, 2005 5:38 pm
- Location: Ireland (Moon-Bog country)
Shameless plug.Jesus Prime wrote:I also really want to use the title "Last Vestiges of a Dream". I was thinking just a poem, a short one like "Sirius" (from my featured section). Might try it later.
Adrian wrote:TELL ME YOU ORDERED THE FUCKING GOLF SHOES!
Adrian wrote:I sure love my pudding.